


It's Not Okay

by WhenFandomStrikes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, First Kiss, M/M, Male Slash, Post Reichenbach, Recreational Drug Use, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:51:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenFandomStrikes/pseuds/WhenFandomStrikes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns to London to find John hasn't taken his death too well while John discovers that his world might not be as shattered as he thought. </p>
<p>For tumblr's Sherlock Secret Santa. Rating for language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not Okay

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for fairytales-are-all-i-have for tumblr's Sherlock Secret Santa. I thought it would be a good idea to write a fic since I'm no good at drawing pretty things like so many of the fandom. It began simple enough and then turned into this monster of over 17,000 words... I should never be allowed to gift a fic again. With that said, I do apologise because this is completely un-beta'd, so feel free to pick it apart. I did notice my problem maintaining a single voice, but I think it flows alright. This is my first fiction and I hope everyone, especially Fairytales, enjoys it. Happy Holidays to all! ~K

Standing in the wet, April rain was never a good way to end a trip where one had spent fourteen hours on a sweltering desert bus, three hours on what modern understanding would never qualify as an aeroplane, and another two hours sitting in morning London traffic in one of his brother’s insufferable private cars. Preferably, Sherlock Holmes would have liked to be standing in front of the familiar door of 221B Baker Street. It irritated him, in a way that he could not explain, that he now stood before a dirty gossamer-covered brick building that looked like that last time it had seen renovation had been before women’s suffrage. 

He stood there for a long moment with his hands tucked in his pockets, swaying gently on his tired feet and staring up at a particular window. The lights inside were minimal, but on, indicating that the flat’s resident was home. A small smile gently pulled at the corner of the detective’s lips. John was home. 

Well, not _home._ He was currently in between the walls and below the roof that kept him away from the brisk, end-of-winter air, but it wasn’t _home._ Home was a warm flat on the other side of London where a weathered woman fussed about not being a house-keeper and the whine of an old electric tea-kettle signalled the time of day. Home was where the song of a violin dispatched boredom and arguments over refrigerator organisation were common place. Home was Baker Street, but that was a simple problem that could easily be dealt with later. One must always maintain their priorities. 

It was a long moment before Sherlock realised that he’d been standing across the street from John’s flat for almost twenty minutes. He blinked a few times, attributing the lack of swift action to exhaustion before he carefully stepped off the kerb to enter the front door of the beaten building. 

The first thing Sherlock noticed was the smell. It wasn’t exceedingly disgusting, but there was a certain rawness to the air that was attributed to improper ventilation. It smelled... stale. Old, was a better term. The stairs were naked planks and it looked as if the lift had been out of order for at least two months. Sherlock could practically hear his thighs protest as he began his ascent to the fifth floor. The creaking and sighing of aged wood could be heard upon every landing. Honestly, this place was abhorrent and Sherlock’s grimace grew in earnest with each passing step.

When he came to rest in front of a door marked by rusty, once supposedly gold-plated pair of numbers that read 53, Sherlock’s wrinkled his nose, but his deep frown vanished. He was finally here. He could feel the heavy weight on his ribs tightening it’s grip as if to hold on, unwilling to be let go. Was he excited? No. That wasn’t the proper term. Perhaps anxious? No, that wasn’t right either. Sherlock had never felt anxiety in his life. This feeling, that clawed at his bones as he lifted a gloved hand to rap on the door, was not new. He just couldn’t remember what it was called.

There were muffled movements beyond the entrance and Sherlock could hear slow footsteps making their way closer. The feeling pulled tighter and Sherlock wasn’t sure if he could stand it much longer. The strange emotion pressed down on him like a boulder. There was a click of a lock and the distinct jangling noise of a chain latch being pulled free before the door swung open.

“Yes?” John Watson asked before he looked up and all of the colour drained from his features. _Oh._ In that very instant, it became all too apparent what that familiar feeling was. It came crashing down in a single moment as Sherlock identified what had been slowly growing inside him for the past nineteen hours.

Doubt.

John’s wide, blue eyes continued to stare and Sherlock felt as if it would be impossible for his lungs to retain air any longer. Doubt. How could he have missed this? _How_ could he have not predicted this? In all of the scenarios that Sherlock had imagined; yelling, fainting, fisticuffs... Sherlock had never focussed on what John would look like after three years. In his mind’s eye, John was exactly the same. He was sturdy and stout, tan-skinned and a bit soft around the middle. He was precisely how Sherlock had left him.

The man who’s eyes still remained fixated upon him, apparently gob-smacked so hard that he could nothing but, was absolutely _not_ the John Watson Sherlock remembered.

That once sturdy, stout frame now looked withered and gaunt, a cane clutched so harshly in John’s right hand that his knuckles had gone white. That cane was clearly the only thing keeping the doctor upright. His tanned skin had gone pallid, whatever colour that remained vanishing upon opening the door. John was no longer soft around the middle, missing more than a stone in comparison to the John of Sherlock’s memory.

“John?” The statement, coming out a bare whisper from his puzzlingly clogged throat, wasn’t meant to be a question, but Sherlock wasn’t actually sure who he was looking at. Everything was wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. The man in front of him couldn’t possibly be his best friend.

John blinked slowly, his eyes moving at the same speed of his brain. He blinked again. And again. And once more for good measure, the speed of each flutter increasing as his brain began to focus more intently.

“Sher–”

“You look terrible.” Sherlock’s still whispering voice interrupted and in a flash and the air changed from thick and oppressive to hot and electric. He didn’t even see the fist coming, nor was he aware that his nose was bleeding until he was sprawled on the floor, clutching his face in confusion.

“YOU ARROGANT BASTARD!” John screamed at him and leaned against the frame of the doorway, blood from his busted hand smearing against the off-white wood. “YOU FUCKING PRICK! YOU SELFISH, LYING, WANKER!”

“John...” Sherlock began, voice stifled by his gloved hand clamping down on his profusely bleeding nose.

“NO, SHERLOCK! NO! SHUT THE FUCK UP!” John hollered as he pushed his weight off the doorjamb and took two limping steps forward to loom over the detective. 

“But–”

“You don’t say another bloody word.” John had stopped yelling and his voice lowered to something far more dangerous causing Sherlock to bite his tongue. This was all wrong. Yes, Sherlock had imagined they’d fight. John would obviously see some flaw in Sherlock’s reasons for keeping the doctor in the dark, but what Sherlock had not imagined was the cold, empty glare thrown down at him from those dark, shadowed eyes.

“Three years.” John began again, continuing in that menacingly soft tone. “Three years, Sherlock. Three. Fucking. YEARS!” The last word came careening out, bits of spittle flying everywhere. One of John’s neighbours poked her head out, but immediately retreated the moment John shouted for her to mind her own damned business. He turned his attention back to Sherlock, his voice hushed again. “Three years and you’ve been alive this whole god-damned time. Three years of my life I’ve spent mourning over a FUCKING LIE! No... no...”

John’s wavering screams turned once more to a breathy hiss and he shook his head softly. It was only a half a beat before a smile, vacant and bitter, spread across his features. It was promptly followed by a laugh that Sherlock had never heard before. This wasn’t any of the joyful, nervous, or full laughs that the detective had catalogued over his years of knowing John. This laugh was devoid of any humour at all.

“Get out.” John chuckled, looking back up to glare at the detective still seated on his arse in the hallway. John’s smile fell away and his gaze turned murderous. “Get out and don’t ever come back.”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide as John turned away from him, heading back to the door of his flat.

“John. Let me–” He began, but John cut him off quickly, spinning to glower menacingly with his hand firmly gripped on his door.

“I don’t think you follow, so let me be very clear. Stay the hell away from me.” John hissed, taking a breath before adding, “ You _heartless_ , _freak_.” and slamming the door.

* * *

 John was drunk. John was so very, _very_ drunk. It wasn’t like that was unusual. John was usually drunk when he was alone. He didn’t drink at work, whenever he actually went to work, and he tried his best to keep himself sober for outings to the shops, when he went to the shops... How was he to know that Sherlock-should-be-dead-Holmes was going to show up at his door, mid-morning, after he’d already been on an all-night binge? He was sure he’d yelled at him. He definitely punched the sod, but he couldn’t remain focussed long enough to figure out exactly why he was upset. He knew why he was angry. The git lied to him. Faked his death and turned John into... _this._ No, he got why he was angry. It was the oppressive weight of sadness, that pressed down on him and smothered him like a blanket that didn’t understand.

His body slid down the door until he was seated on the dingy carpet, his bad leg throbbing in protest. He leaned his head back and listened to the sounds of Sherlock clamouring down the creaky wooden staircase, clearly trying to remove himself from the premises as quickly as those long legs could muster.

Sherlock was alive. John had gotten his miracle.

It didn’t feel like a damned miracle.

John sat on the floor with his head tilted back for a long while until his limbs tingled and his neck ached. He eventually pulled himself up and ungracefully hobbled his way to the tiny bathroom of his tiny, piece-of-shit-flat. Staring at the mirror and watching in his unshaven jaw, pale cheeks and hollow cheekbones, he leaned over the sink in a heave of movement, emptying his stomach into the basin. There wasn’t anything to it really, just some toast and light amber liquid that was once St. George's cheapest.

Once the dry-heaves stopped, the tears came. He didn’t want to cry. He was English, and male and so very, _very_ angry... but he was also drunk. John was so very, _very_ drunk. It wasn’t the broken-down sobs that one might expect from someone who had just discovered their best friend alive after three years. This was a quiet cry. Shameful and pained.

John’s face remained wet as he shifted his weight to drag himself towards the single bed on the far side of the single-room flat. Collapsing onto the groaning mattress, he curled into himself and continued to let the tears slide down his cheeks.

This was definitely not a miracle.

* * *

Sherlock had made it to the bottom of the stairs before he forced himself to stop this ridiculous reaction. He was bleeding and his eyes were watering, which was certainly because of the bleeding and had absolutely nothing to do with John calling him _that._ No. It had nothing to do with John. Well, partially, since the bleeding was John’s fault. 

Recounting the past twenty minutes again while dabbing at his nose with a tissue he’d retrieved from his pocket, Sherlock came to the conclusion that John was upset. Not just angry. Sherlock had been expecting angry. John was _upset._ Disappointed. Why on Earth would he be disappointed? It honestly didn’t make any sense.

Heaving a breath, Sherlock frowned and pushed open the front door of the building. Inconveniently, the weather had taken a turn for the worse, now not lightly drizzling, but down-pouring.

“Lovely.” Sherlock muttered to himself through the bloody tissue before turning to begin walking. It wasn’t like he couldn’t get a cab, but he had no desire to go anywhere in particular. No use getting into a cab when one doesn’t know where they want to go. So, Sherlock just started walking. He needed to figure out what had caused John to react so viscerally. He wasn’t just mad at Sherlock. There had been something else in John’s eyes that the detective just couldn’t understand. If only he could focus.

As he moved, Sherlock decided that John hadn’t chosen the best part of London to live in. This neighbourhood was rather foul. It wasn’t as if Sherlock had never been to this part of town. Cases had certainly brought him to the seedier areas and, before that, so had the drugs. What Sherlock didn’t like was the fact that _John_ lived here. This wasn’t a place for a soldier like John to live. This was where those who had no direction, no motivation and certainly no passable skill ended up. John was a war hero, a doctor and blogger. Not a dead-beat dad or junkie.

“Hey, mate. Need a hit?” Came a thick cockney voice from the alleyway, breaking Sherlock away from his thoughts momentarily.

“Not interested. Go away.” Sherlock chided without looking, giving the young man who appeared from the shadows a simple wave of his hand.

“Ya sure? I gots plenty of merchandise.” The youth grinned, his teeth yellow and crooked.

“I said go away.” This time Sherlock’s eyes fell on the boy and he quickly assessed the junkie. He was young, most likely under twenty-five. He’d seen many years of drug use, the boy far too thin for what would be considered healthy.

“Sorry, mate. Ya jus’ seemed like you could use a bit’a head-clearin’, s’all.” The young man continued to smile. “Jus’ seems like you’re a little lost.”

“I don’t need...” Sherlock began, but paused as a sudden thought hit him. “Do you have a cigarette?”

The boy’s grin widened and he pulled out a familiar-looking blue and silver pack of Mayfairs from his inside pocket. Without prompting, Sherlock took a step closer to the young dealer, extending the hand without the bloodied tissue in it.

“If you don’t mind.” The detective offered a small, fake smile of gratitude.

“Not at all.” The youth replied, handing a cigarette and a book of matches to Sherlock. “But if you want something a bit more stimulating...” The dealer added, giving Sherlock a smile as the detective lit and took a deep drag of the cigarette. “I can certainly provide. For a price, of course.”

* * *

Why did it hurt even worse now? What had started out as a meagre pity party on his bed turned into an all out sob-fest while milking his last bottle of piss-poor whiskey. John would have been using a glass, but that had ended up shattered against the door to his flat. He sat at his tiny breakfast table, gripping the bottle tightly and staring down that door as if it had offended him. It had, in a way. That door had brought him more anguish than the roof of Saint Bart’s. 

Sherlock’s suicide had obviously taken a toll on John. He had gotten worse and worse with time as opposed to better. His drinking had gotten so bad that even Harry had suggested that he come to meetings with her, the bitch. How dare she? How dare Sherlock?

“Fuck him.” John whimpered to himself as he pulled another mouth-full from the now half-empty bottle. Sherlock _lied._ That was the worst bit. Sherlock had lied and faked it all and ruined John’s life. And then the bastard had the audacity to _be alive._

Sherlock was alive.

There were so many emotions running through John at once, but the most prominent was sheer anger. He had hoped, years before, that Sherlock was on the verge of becoming a better man. He had hoped that Sherlock was on the verge of becoming that _good_ man that Greg Lestrade had always wished him to be.

Sherlock Holmes was most definitely _not_ a good man. Sherlock Holmes was a liar and a psychopath. He didn’t give a damn about John. He never did and John was so hurt by that fact.

“Fuck him.” John muttered again, placing the bottle of St. George’s Whiskey on the table and spinning in slowly. “Bastard.” He scoffed, watching the light from the window play off the glass. “Arse had the gall to think I’d be happy to see him, he did.” John wasn’t addressing anyone in particular, mainly directing his muttering towards the near-empty bottle. “Thinks I’d be happy.”

John twisted the bottle again before picking it up and tipping the rest of it’s contents down his throat, growling as the cheap booze burned his tongue.

“Bastard.” He whispered, slamming the bottle back down and spinning it again. His eyes were drawn to it’s neck, the lovely red light from outside dancing on the bottle’s rim. It was so very hypnotic. John sway back and forth in his chair, allowing full intoxication to take over. He would probably pass out soon, but that wasn’t unfamiliar territory either. As he shifted, the red tinge on the bottle blinked out and then reappeared. John smiled and quickly made a game of it. Moving himself and the bottle this way and that to cause the light to refract on the wall beyond. This was all very entertaining until John ended up tipping too far and upending his chair.

He grumbled to himself and tried his best to pull himself back up. This landed John on his arse a few more times, knocking the table and causing the whiskey bottle to roll of the table and shatter on the floor.

“Fuck.” John grumbled again. His eyes tracking the now unobscured red light on the wall.

Red light...

Red dot.

“SHIT!” He may have been drunk, but he wasn’t completely unable to move because when his brain, and the owner of that red dot finally caught up, John was military crawling across his dingy, glass-covered floor as the first bullet came flying.

“SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!!” Who the fuck was shooting!? John scrambled, flashbacks of sand and screams wavering his vision. Another shot rang out and plaster exploded just above John’s head. He kept moving, but John was at least aware that he was in no condition to be dodging bullets. He was able to get himself into the bathroom as another bullet shattered it’s way through the door jam.

“Son of a...” He groaned, breathing heavy and trying to clear his sight. He knew what he had to do, so with as much coordination as a severely drunk ex-army doctor can muster, John pulled himself over to the toilet and proceed to shove his fingers down his throat. Reaching up all of that crap whiskey was certainly not the most pleasant of experiences, but John needed to be sober now. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it would help.

Once he was done heaving, he took a few quick breaths. The shooting had stopped, but John knew better than to the think the sniper gone. He was waiting. A good sniper had the patience of a saint and John was sure that he could chalk his currently beating heart up to utter dumb, drunken luck.

He kept his eyes on the door. There was no cover between the front door to his flat and the loo, which meant that if John was going to make a run for it, he only had one chance. He glanced up at the holes left in the wall just outside of the bathroom. It looked like a large calibre weapon.

“If it’s a fifty cal, I am so fucked.” He mutter to no one as his eyes danced back down to the door. He knew it was locked, chain still latched. It would take far too long to actually _open_ the damned thing. His heart was pounding in his ears and he took a few more deep breaths.

“Well... here goes.” He muttered to himself, before diving out of the loo and towards the breakfast table. He flipped the wood over just as the top corner of it splintered out violently. He dove again, this time towards the lone easy chair that occupied a small space by the front door. More wood and plaster rained down behind him, quickly followed by stuffing from the old chair’s innards.

John knew he only had a few seconds before the sniper would just start filling his chair with lead in a desperate and, most likely, definitive attempt to neutralise his target. John looked mournfully at his front door, but the sight that should have left him without hope made his heart flutter with ambition.

In his attempt to take out a moving target, the sniper had blown two massive holes in the wood of John’s front door. If the doctor could muster enough strength, he could kick the damn thing down.

“It’s now or never, Captain.” John said to himself, taking in one last deep breath before launching himself from behind his chair and throwing himself at the door with everything he had. The wood splintered out and John was thrown out into the hallway, colliding with and landing on top of a wide-eyed figure.

“Sherlock!” John bellowed in surprise before what was left of the door behind them fractured into bits, raining splinters down on them. “Move!”

They rolled together until they were out of the sniper’s line of sight, Sherlock tucked against John’s side and half pinned by the smaller man’s body.

“We need to get out of here.” Sherlock said hurriedly, pushing against John until the shorter man removed himself. The detective didn’t waste any time before grabbing John’s hand in his and pulling him to follow.

“Who the fuck was that, Sherlock?!” John asked while allowing himself to be led down the old creaky stair of his building. “They were trying to kill me!”

“He. One man. Colonel Sebastian Moran. Moriarty’s right hand and the assassin assigned to kill you if I didn’t kill myself.” Sherlock replied, his voice sharp and emotionless. He might as well have been describing the colour of Mrs. Hudson’s favourite curtains.

“Assassin? What? I don’t...”

“Enough, John. We’ll discuss this later.” Sherlock sounded irritated. “Right now we need to focus on getting out of here alive.”

By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, the telltale sound of police sirens could be heard in the distance. Of course someone called the police. Gunfire had a tendency to motivate people to do that. Sherlock pulled John’s arm roughly towards the door, but John pulled back, freeing himself from the taller man’s grip.

“Wait. Wait, Sherlock. Just hold on a second.” His chest was heaving and John could tell he wasn’t going to able able to stay upright once the adrenaline wore off. “The police are almost here. Let’s not go running out into the open with a sniper out there.”

“But if we don’t move now, he’ll get away.” Sherlock damn near _whined._ John gaped at him for a moment before he shrugged and let his bad leg finally give out, forcing him to sit on the bottom step of the stairs.

“Let him. Jesus, Sherlock. Just, let the fucker go. I can’t.” It was all starting to collapse again. The gunfire and the pain in his leg only made it worse. He kept hearing screams for a medic and John was almost certain he was going to pass out. He let out a small moan and tilted forward, grasping his head with his hands.

“John?” Sherlock was kneeling in front of him now, a look of curiosity and mild annoyance on his face. “We don’t have time for one of your post-traumatic flashbacks. Moran is getting away.”

“Fuck off.” John grumbled, swaying slightly but remaining upright. His voice lacked all conviction as spots began to blink behind his tightly-closed eyes. He huffed out a breath and looked up to meet Sherlock’s irritated glare. It was only a few moments, but John saw everything. Though Sherlock could do this to everyone and everything, John’s doctor instincts were rarely off the mark when it came to live people.

_Eyes dilated. Pulse rapid. Increased respiration._

“Are you... Are you high?” John leaned back, his mind whirring.

“Yes. Problem?” Sherlock cocked his head to the side, pulling away to stand at his full hight and look down on John.

“You came back to my flat, after I kicked you out, high as a kite? What the hell was that supposed to accomplish?” John couldn’t believe it. What was this bastard thinking?

“It helps me think. After you punched me in the face and demanded I leave, I needed to sort out the data.” Sherlock rattled off, frowning deeply. “You, on the other hand, proceeded to inhale a bottle of cheap whiskey, obvious from the smell. We are both under the influence of something, and while your senses are dulled by the debilitating effects of alcohol, I am functioning at peek efficiency. We don’t have time for this. Moran is escaping!”

“Peek effec... You’re _HIGH!_ ” John shouted, his arms flailing about helplessly.

“You’re assumptions are flawed.” Sherlock scoffed with irritation. “You think because I have obtained and used an illicit substance that my mind is addled and subject to error. You are wrong. I am more focussed than ever, which is more than I can say for you who has clearly forgotten that were were supposed to be chasing a sniper who just attempted to murder you.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake...” John would have continued his attempt to tell Sherlock how absolutely appalled he was, but he was cut off by the torrent of police swarming the building. The whole thing ended up looking rather ridiculous. 

Sherlock had taken a step back to allow the geared men and women to pass him by where as John remained seated on the stairs as those in tactical gear flowed around him and upward. The sirens were clear as day, now that the door had been opened, and the lights danced around the two men until a familiar and shocked voice rang out.

“Sherlock?”

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade stood in the open doorway, his mouth hanging open. He looked at Sherlock for a long moment before casting his eyes on John, who was still stupidly seated on the stairs.

“Hi Greg.” John’s voice sounded miserable. “Nice to see you.”

“Jesus, John. What the...”

“Why are you here?” Sherlock cut the Inspector off before he could finish whatever ridiculous question he’d begun. “This is not homicide’s division.”

“I heard John’s address come up on the radio.” Lestrade commented flatly without even looking at Sherlock now. He was bent down on his knee in front of John. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Fine.” John grunted, letting Greg help him up. “Just tired.” And drunk, but John kept that to himself.

“Christ. Was is you the sod was shooting at?” Lestrade asked, letting go of John so that the man could find his footing.

“Yup. Surprising, isn’t it?” John laughed emptily. “The day this wanker shows up at my door, it starts raining bullets in my flat.”

Once John had acknowledged Sherlock, Greg spun on his heels. “You’re supposed to be dead. Care to explain that one?”

“No.” Sherlock frowned. “Not yet, anyway. There’s a sniper on the loose. I would prefer to find him first.”

“Of course you would.” The corners of Greg’s mouth tipped upwards slightly. “Alright. Out with it. What have you got?”

It was as if those three years had never passed. Sherlock rattled off every detail he knew about Sebastian Moran, his military service, how he was discharged, his proficiency with firearms and a very accurate current description. John blinked a few times and swayed on his feet as Sherlock spoke. It really was like things had never changed. Like Sherlock had never thrown himself off the roof of Saint Bart’s.

“If you move now and spread out a search within a six-block radius, I’m sure you’ll be able to catch up to him. Make sure that you spread down into the sewer systems as well.” Sherlock finished, looking passed Lestrade at John who was now leaning against the railing of the staircase.

“No need for that.” Came the very cool and collected voice of Mycroft Holmes. He was standing in the doorway in his usual three-piece suit, leaning casually on his umbrella.

Great, thought John. Now he had to deal with Mycroft as well.

“John and Sherlock will be taken care of while my people search for Moran. Thank you for securing the scene, Detective Inspector.”

“Now wait just a minute...” Lestrade protested, by Mycroft held up a hand.

“You and your people have quite enough to deal with at the moment, Gregory. Leave this to us.” It wasn’t a request. Double-O-Mycroft was going to take over the operation whether Greg wanted to concede or not. The elder Holmes was just being decent enough to not make it look like that.

“Fine. I’ll get John and Sherlock to Saint Bart’s.”

“NO!” Everyone froze. John wasn’t even sure why he’d yelled in the first place, but there was absolutely no way he was going back there. “No... Mile End is fine. Actually... no. My flat is fine. I’m fine. Really.”

“John.” Came Mycroft’s warning voice that sounded far to much like Sherlock’s annoyed  one. “You’re in shock.”

“I don’t have a blanket.” John pointed out flatly. A pathetic joke, but he could see Sherlock smirking out of the corner of his eye.

“Then we’ll get you one. Off with you.” Mycroft smiled snidely. Sherlock and John looked at each other for a brief second before shuffling towards the door. Before they were all the way out, Mycroft grabbed hold of his brother’s arm and whispered harshly in his ear. The grimace on Sherlock’s lips meant that whatever was said was certainly disapproved of, but John wasn’t close enough to hear.

Greg followed them out into the street. Supposedly the area was now secure, but John couldn’t help the darting of his eyes from window to window.

“He’s gone.” Sherlock said from behind him and John spun around and frowned up at the should-be-dead man.

“He wouldn’t have even been here if it wasn’t for you.” John was angry again. And sober. Why the hell was he sober? Oh yes, because being shot at has that effect. “None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for you.” And John wasn’t sure if he meant the sniper or the last three years.

* * *

Mile End Hospital was nothing like Bart’s. For one, it was much smaller. John liked that. It wasn’t a big imposing building that someone’s best friend could jump to their death off of. John liked that 

John was admitted to the A&E with small cuts on his hands. Apparently he’d sliced himself on the broken whiskey bottle without even knowing it. He was also given a banana bag to treat dehydration. That was the whiskey bottle’s fault too, but he didn’t share that thought with the nurses.

Sherlock had vanished again, not that John cared. Sherlock was the last person John needed right now. He needed his bed. He needed his cheap whiskey. He needed...

“John?” Greg had returned. After he’d dropped John and Sherlock off at the hospital, he’d made mention of paperwork and not letting Mycroft’s government monkeys mess everything. He hadn’t been gone long, John was sure.

“Hey.” John wasn’t lying down in the hospital bed and instead had propped himself up in one of the visitors chairs with pillows tucked behind his back. “How goes?”

“Well, it looks like MI5 is in charge now, so I’m off. How are you?” Greg looked genuinely concerned. He could have been more specific, but John was sure that the Inspector was leaving the question open enough so that John didn’t have to talk about anything he didn’t want to.

“Angry.” John said simply. It covered a lot of it. He was angry he was in the hospital. Angry he was sober. Angry Sherlock had shown up with his flipped collar and bright eyes and high cheekbones. “Very, very angry.”

“At him?” Lestrade prodded carefully. John knew who _him_ was, but was sure Greg didn’t want to mention the name. That name was never a good name to use around John.

“Yes.” John sighed, tipping his head back and staring at the ceiling.

“Want to talk about it?” Now that was far more direct than Greg had been in years. Sure, he’d asked John a month after Sherlock’s suicide if he’d wanted to talk about it, but that was so many “pub nights” ago.

“Not really, but I probably should.” At least John was being truthful with himself. He knew that talking about would help relieve some of the anger, or make it worse, but anything was better than stewing in it.

Greg moved into the room and pulled a chair up next to John. He didn’t say anything else. He just sat there. This was what made Greg such a good mate. He wasn’t like Harry, who couldn’t keep her trap shut about things she didn’t understand. Greg would just hang tight and let things fall as they may.

“You’re a good friend.” John whispered, still fixated on the ceiling.

“I try.” Was Greg’s response.

They sat there in silence for a long time. John was sure he dozed off briefly, but when he blinked his eyes open, Greg was still there. Good ol’ Greg.

“You know what gets me?” John tensed at the question, not quite ready to hear what Greg’s thoughts on Sherlock’s return were. How Sherlock lied to them. Manipulated them. How he _used_ them.

“Why everyone is so concerned about Scholes and Giggs getting old. I mean, Man U won their last game and have been doing alright. I think that people should just let them go out under their own steam. They are legends.”

Football... Oh, Greg. Good ol’ Greg.

“Yeah.” John smiled and his smile eventually turned into a laugh. “Exactly.”

* * *

Getting debriefed was utterly _boring_. There was absolutely no need for him to be here. Sherlock had kept MI6 well aware of his movements over the past three years, so why was he sitting here listening to Mycroft and his idiotic colleague go on and on about _procedure_ and _national security_? 

“Bored.” He finally interrupted the other man’s yammering which earned him a cold stare from Mycroft.

“We’re almost finished, dear brother. Patience.”

“I’ve been patient for three years. I want this to be done.” Sherlock groaned, sinking down in his chair and adopting the air of a belligerent child.

“Do you have more pressing concerns, Mr. Holmes?” Asked the liaison from MI6. The man was fat, though impeccably dressed. It was unbearably obvious that he was having regular sex with his secretary even though he had maintained the guise of a happy marriage.

“Dull.” He muttered to himself, but the MI6 agent frowned.

“If you find the security of our country that dull, Mr. Holmes, perhaps you should have chosen another line of work.” The fat man grimaced.

“I am not one of your agents. So, I believe the appropriate social response to that is ‘piss off.’”

“Sherlock...” Mycroft stepped forward, placing himself in between his brother and the liaison. “What my brother means to say is that we certainly have enough information to continue on without him. His services are no longer needed at this juncture of the operation.”

“We still don’t understand why Doctor Watson was involved.” The liaison frowned, addressing Mycroft now. Sherlock took in a breath to respond, but Mycroft was quicker.

“Doctor Watson is a former colleague of Sherlock’s. When Moran realised that Sherlock was indeed alive, he tracked him to Watson’s flat in an attempt to neutralise him. Doctor Watson was just caught in an unfortunate situation.”

There were very few times that Sherlock was thankful for his brother’s ability to be so manipulative, so politically cunning. This was certainly one of those few times. He watched as Mycroft weaved a story of Sherlock tracing Moran to London and Moran following Sherlock back to John’s flat and, in thinking that Sherlock was gaining help from and old friend, sat on the house with the intention of killing Sherlock. Mycroft conveniently left out the part where Sherlock had actually lost Moran in Paris and had absolutely no knowledge that he was even _in_ London. Sherlock had just wanted to see John.

“So just collateral damage, then?” The stodgy man asked and Sherlock had to bite his tongue. John was not collateral.

“Yes. Plain and simple.” Mycroft said with a saccharine smile. “Now, if that’s enough to be going on, I need to speak with my brother privately.”

“Fine.” The MI6 man growled, eyeing Sherlock with disdain. “He’s yours now, Mycroft, but don’t think that this is over. Moran is still loose.”

“I am well aware of that fact, thank you.”

“Then _he_ is your responsibility now.” Boring Man pointed at Sherlock before moving towards the door of Mycroft’s office.

“Thank you, Minister. Have a lovely evening.” Minister? Oh, Sherlock should have caught that. Perhaps he’d missed that introduction when he was busy thinking about the chemical make-up of the lipstick on the old man’s collar.

Once the _Minister_ was gone, Sherlock stood to leave as well, feeling that he’d had quite enough of this ridiculous spy business. He had to get back to Mile End Hospital.

“Not just yet, Sherlock.”

_Damn._

“What?” Sherlock groaned, again sounding like an annoyed little boy. “What now?”

“Please do not annoy me with your ignorance. You know precisely _what._ ” Mycroft sneered, moving to seat himself in the chair Sherlock had vacated which, in turn, left his back facing the younger man. “Please have a seat.”

Sherlock grumbled softly before crossing back into the room and placing himself in the lounge chair facing Mycroft.

“This was a very interesting turn of events, Sherlock. I told you going to see Doctor Watson was inadvisable.” Mycroft began, but that immediately earned him and angry glare from Sherlock.

“You told me he was fine. He was decidedly not fine, _Mycroft._ ” Sherlock sneered. “He was not fine.”

“He is fine now. Safe and protected. My sources tell me that Detective Inspector Lestrade is with him.” This statement earned another grimace from Sherlock, but Mycroft continued. “My concern is not for John Watson, but the effect that John Watson has had on you.”

“Oh, please...” Sherlock began, but Mycroft remained diligent.

“You used tonight, Sherlock. You were high when I arrived in Soho and spent the entire trip to my office coming down.” Mycroft’s voice was soft. He wasn’t scolding, not yet anyway. He was just pointing out the facts. “How many times?”

“Once.” Sherlock frowned. “Just once. I’m fine. I don’t need you telling me what to do.” Now he definitely sounded like a child. With that said, Sherlock stood up and paced to Mycroft’s desk, pulling open a drawer and reaching around into the back, his hand brushing over the familiar plastic of Mycroft’s ‘secret’ candy bar stash to pull out the half-empty box of Marlboro Golds. Mycroft made no move to protest as Sherlock casually opened the box to retrieve a fag and perch it on his lips. Once the cigarette was lit with the lighter from the middle drawer of the desk, Sherlock resumed his seat.

“Better?” Mycroft asked with a slight smile.

“I’m done.” Sherlock responded, as if that answered Mycroft’s question.

“No, dear brother. I do believe you are just beginning.”

* * *

Greg had insisted that John come home with him that night. John didn’t want to. He just wanted to go to Tesco’s, get a nice bottle of Whyte and Mackay and drown in it. But Greg knew John well enough than to let him off the chain right now. They still hadn’t discussed Sherlock. John didn’t want to do that either, but it was going to happen sooner or later. They could only discuss football for so long. 

“If you need anything, just give a holler.” Greg smiled as he stood at the door to his guest bedroom. “I’m right down the hall.”

“I’ll be fine.” John gave a half-genuine smile. “Thanks for this, Greg.”

“What are mates for?” Greg laughed and shut the door to leave John alone with his thoughts. John wouldn’t have minded that so much if he was at home... after a trip from Tesco’s.

He sat on the edge of the bed and sighed softly before allowing his whole body to fall backwards across the mattress.

“How is this my life?” John asked the empty room. He ran his fingers through his hair and let his arm flop above his head. “How do you continue to do this to me?”

It was a pity that no one replied because John was in desperate need of some answers. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, holding it for a long moment before letting it out slow and steady. Alright, he decided. It was time to go over it all and see if he truly understood everything.

Start at the beginning.

One. Sherlock committed suicide. Wrong, because Sherlock was definitely alive now. So, Sherlock _faked_ his suicide. Alright. Two, Sherlock had to fake his suicide because Moriarty had assigned an assassin to John to ensure it. At least, that what Sherlock had said during their scurry down the stairs.

_“The assassin assigned to kill you if I didn’t kill myself.”_ Sherlock’s words rang in his head. So, in effect, Sherlock had been protecting John. Okay. That bit wasn’t so bad. Rather noble, even. John even let his heart warm slightly at the thought. Sherlock was protecting John from harm. That was actually rather sweet.

But why hadn’t he told John his plan?

Ah, now that was the question John ached to have answered. He would leave the ‘How he did it’ for Sherlock to explain, which John was absolutely sure Sherlock would gladly do. What frustrated John now wasn’t the fact that Sherlock had faked it all. He was actually impressed by that. Well done, Sherlock. Very clever. But why hadn’t he told John? 

Why had Sherlock waited three whole years to tell his supposed best friend that he was forced to fake his own death? Was it because he couldn’t? Was he bound to secrecy? It was clear that Mycroft wasn’t surprised his brother was living, so naturally the government was involved. No. Sherlock didn’t give a rat’s arse about the government, Queen and country or any of the rubbish Mycroft pressed upon him. Sherlock would defy begged-upon secrecy just to _spite_ his brother, so that wasn’t it.

It wasn’t like Sherlock couldn’t trust John with...

_Oh._

And that was the elephant in the room. _Trust._ Sherlock didn’t trust John to keep his secret. Of course he wouldn’t. Not something on such a grand scale as this. No, Sherlock had to keep this very close to the vest and only the most essential people could be involved. And wasn’t that just a load of utter _bullshit_?

“Some best friend.” John groaned, kicking off his shoes and rolling over on the duvet until he could shimmy the thing down enough for him to slip beneath it. He pulled off his jumper and jeans, dumping them unceremoniously on the floor and leaving him in his vest and boxers. He pulled the covers up to his nose and rolled over to curl up slightly, cocooning himself in the blankets.

“Why would he trust you?” John asked his pillow, nuzzling his face against it as his eyes began to water slightly. “You’re just boring old John Watson.” That statement did far more damage than he would have liked, because after the words had left his mouth, his eyes dampened again. “You aren’t anything special. You aren’t brilliant or clever. You’re dull, lame... broken... John...”

He couldn’t finish his statement. He was too busy trying to keep his throat from closing up and his sobs quiet enough so that Greg couldn’t hear him.

* * *

Sherlock returned to Mile End only to discover John had left, he decided to return to the Soho flat. Naturally, John wasn’t there, the flat still being considered an active crime scene. He easily picked the lock and slipped beneath the yellow tape barring the door. As his eyes wandered the devastation, he realised that he was he was standing in a stranger’s home. This place spoke nothing of Captain John Watson, MD. Instead, it spoke of a drunk old bachelor who had too many frays hanging from his edges. 

“What happened to you, John?” Sherlock asked the open air as he stepped over the shattered bits of plaster and glass, bringing himself deeper into the flat. It was barren, as was John’s room back at Baker Street, but there was something not right about the place. It didn’t seem so much _lived in_ as it did _traversed through_. John wasn’t happy here. It was a roof over his head and nothing more.

Sherlock moved around a bit more, being careful to remain far away from the windows and make as little noise as possible. There weren’t many places to go in the studio flat, it only being one room with a kitchen installed on the end of it. The only other door in the whole place was the bathroom’s and even that was tiny.

As he continued about, a flash of colour caught Sherlock’s eye. On the bed, peeking out from beneath the corner of John’s ugly and worn brown duvet was a slice of blue, white and red. He pulled the blanket away and couldn’t help smiling slightly. There, tucked away in the corner and partially covered in sheets, was Sherlock’s Union Jack pillow that formerly adorned John’s easy chair at Baker Street.

“This is a crime scene, ya know?”

Sherlock was broken out of his fond thoughts of the familiar object to turn and see Greg Lestrade standing in the doorway.

“Oh? My mistake.” Sherlock scoffed, covering the pillow once more with the duvet.

“He’s moved a few times since Baker Street.” Greg continued, stepping underneath the bright yellow tape to join Sherlock in the empty and demolished flat. “And every time, he took that stupid pillow with him.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing to allow space for Lestrade to continue. 

“I helped him move twice, though everything he owns he could easily pack in two boxes. He’d take his RAMC mug and that pillow. Those were the only things that mattered. Everything else was...” Greg waved his hand around as if to imply something, but Sherlock wasn’t entire sure what it was. “Offered to let him move in with me both times. The Mrs. and I split when I lost my position in the Yard and I was left with a big empty house. He always declined.”

“Too proud.” Sherlock smiled, tilting his head slightly. “Wouldn’t ask his sister for help either. I wonder why he didn’t just find another flat-share. Mrs. Hudson would have surely let John stay at the rates she’d given me.”

“Right.” Lestrade nodded, laughing without any real humour. “Like he was going to stay in your flat.”

“Our flat.” Sherlock corrected.

“No, Sherlock. _Yours._ It was always yours. He just lived there.” Greg frowned and stepped closer, his voice teetering on angry. “You really have no idea, do you?”

“ _We_ lived there. Forgive me, but I am not following your logic here.” The tone of his voice spoke his irritation. What was Lestrade going on about?

“Nope. _You_ lived there, Sherlock. Even when you were dead, you lived there.” Greg sighed. “He tried to stay. Mrs. Hudson was even kind enough to lower the rent so he could afford it until he was ready to find someone else to move in, but he just couldn’t bear it. He barely slept, rarely ate and when he did put something in his mouth, it was usually a bottle of the cheapest whiskey he could find.” Greg turned away from Sherlock and idly kicked at some of the glass on the floor. “You _haunted_ that place.”

“Preposterous.” Sherlock scoffed. “I wasn’t actually dead and there are no such things as ghosts.”

“Oh, but there are.” Greg spun around to face Sherlock again, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. “And your ghost was driving John to madness. I was just waiting for the phone call. Waiting for the day that I had to show up at a scene to find that John had put his old Browning to use.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock tried to sound indignant, but his voice was far too hushed. What Lestrade was implying was certainly starting to unsettle the detective.

“I can assure you, the fact that John Watson would follow you anywhere, even in death, is not ridiculous.” Greg’s voice had turned soft and his eyes shone brightly. “That man would have done anything for you.”

“John would never kill himself.” Sherlock said in a hushed whisper. He sounded confident enough.

“Did you not see him? He _is_ killing himself.” Greg raised his voice, looking around the flat as if someone would point out to Sherlock that what he said was truth. “Granted, drowning in alcohol is a bit slower than most suicides, but it’s certainly effective.” The elder man took a few steps forward until he was nearly nose to nose with Sherlock. “And to be honest, I’m surprised he made it this long.” 

“That’s enough.” Sherlock sneered, spinning away from Lestrade to pace by him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t? Really?” Lestrade laughed again, following Sherlock as he made his way to the door. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve had to pick that sorry sod up from a pub because he’d had one too many?” He asked, dipping beneath the tape to follow Sherlock down the stairs. “How many times I sat on the edge of the tub while he buried his face in the toilet? How often I’ve had to pull strings in the department to get him out of trouble for disorderly conduct?”

“ENOUGH!” Sherlock shouted and spun to glare up at Lestrade from a few steps below him. “Enough! Obviously John did not take my death well, but you don’t understand what had to be done. Thank you for your input, though. It’s been extraordinarily annoying.”

“No, Sherlock, I don’t think you understand.” Greg shouted back, offering up his own glower in return. “You think that you can waltz in here and be the hero. I hate to... actually, no. I’m honoured to tell you that the world continued spinning after the great Sherlock Holmes played his clever little game and when you left you broke so many people, John included.”

“John is not broken.” Sherlock hissed. “He will be fine. Everything will be fine.”

“Will it, Sherlock?” Greg tilted his head. “Because I don’t think you truly grasp just how fucked up everything really is.”

“Take me to him.” Sherlock said, his voice stern and cold.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.” Greg shook his head, but Sherlock was already on his way down the stairs before the statement was finished, forcing the DI to follow.

“Take me to him or I’ll take a cab. Either way is fine, I just feel it would be a waste of money to take two vehicles to your house when you could easily drive us both.”

“How did you...?”

“Because someone who picks mates up at pubs and holds their hair back while they vomit is not the type of person to send a man who was just shot at to a hotel. You said you live in an empty house and had previously offered John stay, which means you have a room. He’s at your house.” Sherlock spat everything out as efficiently as he would the information of a corpse at a crime scene. “Obvious.”

“Yeah.” Greg sighed. “And there is no deterring you, right? You’ll just come and if I don’t let you in you’ll break in anyway?”

“Correct assumption.”

“Right.” The greying detective ran a hand through his hair and down his neck before letting it fly outward, his palm towards the stairs. “After you, then.”

* * *

When John heard the door open, he wasn’t asleep. He wasn’t even close. He cried himself out hours ago. He’d heard Greg leave, thinking that maybe something else had turned up at the Yard. Better off, really, because John wasn’t in the mood to speak quite yet 

He heard the soft footsteps making their way up the stairs. They grew closer to the door until they were accompanied by a light knock of knuckles on wood.

“John? You awake?” Greg’s voice sounded strained.

“Yeah. It’s alright. Come in.” The door opened a crack and Greg poked his head in only to the shoulders. John shimmied further up the bed to sit upright and pulled the covers to his waist to maintain decency.

“Look, I can just pretend you’re asleep, but...” He looked away for a moment, gathering his wits, before returning his pitying gaze to John. “He’s here. He wants to see you.”

John couldn’t help the groan that escaped him and he flopped sideways onto the bed.

“Why?” He asked in a hissing whisper. “Why can’t he let me just figure this out? Just a little bit?”

“Like I said, you can be sleeping.” Greg reassured with a small, hopeful smile.

“Ugh... no.” John groaned again, pulling away the duvet and reaching for his jeans. “No. I’ll get rid of him. I’ll try to keep it down.” Because there was definitely going to be yelling. John was just going to have to try and keep said yelling to a minimum.

“You sure?” Greg asked, looking slightly worried now. Who could blame him? He knew just how nasty Sherlock could be and John had handled that for years. Who knew what sort of darkness John Watson would have lingering inside to defend himself against the bladed-tongue of a consulting detective?

“Yeah. I’m sure. Just...” John sighed, buttoning up his jeans and sitting on the edge of the bed a moment. “Just keep out of our way for a bit. It might get... ugly.”

“Right.” Greg nodded, opening the door fully when John padded over on socked feet. “I’ll be in my room, then. But if that sod goes to far, you holler, yeah?”

John offered Greg a warm smile. He really was a good friend.

“Yeah.” John nodded, clapping Greg’s shoulder and leaving him in the upstairs hallway.

Sherlock was seated in the parlour, his long coat tightly wrapped around himself as if he were fighting off the bitter chill of December in London and not actually sitting in a comfortable living space in a rather nice house.

“What do you want?” John’s voice was stern and cold. He made sure that there was no room for Sherlock to misinterpret John’s feelings. John was unhappy and he was going to make damn sure that Sherlock knew it was his fault.

“I came to make sure you were alright.” God, that statement had so much weight to it. Of course John wasn’t alright. He was very, very far from alright. Sherlock hadn’t even looked up to address him. The git just sat there in his coat staring emptily at Greg’s unused fireplace.

“I’m fine. Mission accomplished. You can leave now.” John’s voice was clipped and his teeth clenched around each word as if he was trying not to spit them out onto the floor.

“You’re angry.” Sherlock frowned, his eyes still hadn’t moved. “And I think I understand why you’re angry.”

“Oh, do enlighten me, then.” John sneered, leaning his weight against the wall. “I’m dying to hear what the great detective has deduced.”

“Don’t mock me, John.” Sherlock’s head whipped around and his eyes focussed sharply on the other man. “I wish to discuss the matter, but if you continue to be childish and deflect my focus with you’re ridiculous and unnecessary sarcasm, I will leave.”

“Then go.” John chuckled darkly. “I do recall mentioning that I never wanted to see you again, so your plan of vacating the premises fits in with my wishes quite nicely.”

“I can’t leave.” Sherlock frowned, turned away from John again.

“And why is that?” Not that John honestly cared.

“Be cause you’re still disappointed with me and I do not like it.” If John didn’t know any better, he would have thought Sherlock sounded confused, almost like he didn’t fully understand what was happening or how to fix it. He was about to tell Sherlock exactly what he could do when the detective spoke again.

“I understand why you’re angry. I lied to you. Lied to everyone. My death had far more ramifications on people’s lives then I had anticipated. Lestrade had to fight for his job. You fell into depression. Even Anderson and Donovan had been effected, thinking they caused me to kill myself.” Sherlock paused and shook his head. “All of that I had a vague awareness of and somewhat knew would happen... except...”

Sherlock turned to face John again, a frown evident on his face. 

“I thought you’d survive. I thought you’d move on. Forget about me and move on.” Sherlock was standing now, slowly moving and before John could blink, he was looking up into red-rimmed grey eyes. “But you didn’t. You never forgot.” He nose crinkled slightly as he observed the man in front on him. “Why, John? Why?”

John had a million answers and none at all. He could have told Sherlock that subjecting an ex-soldier with PTSD with a massive amount of stress usually didn’t have results that one would qualify as beneficial. He could have told him that no one really forgets what their best friend looks like when they plummet toward pavement after talking about notes and goodbyes. He could have even said that he was so angry at Sherlock for leaving him that he vowed revenge in the afterlife. 

But none of these held up what John was actually feeling. None of these statements were entirely true. Why had John tried to drown himself in liquor? Why had he fallen out of touch with almost everyone except Greg? (The only reason he still talked to Greg was because Greg wouldn’t leave him alone.) How had the death of a man he’d only known two years effected him so greatly?

“I don’t know...” Was the only answer he could give because, honestly, John had WAY to many questions.

Sherlock sighed at that response. He obviously wanted answers too, but John just didn’t didn’t have them.

“I don’t know the appropriate actions to take here.” Sherlock muttered softly, looking down at his feet and fiddling with a button on his coat.

“I’m angry with you.” John said softly. “And I don’t know if I ever _won’t_ be angry with you.”

“Oh.” Another sigh. Well, at least they weren’t yelling.

“Perhaps, we should take some time apart?” Great. Now John sounded like he was breaking up with a girlfriend or something. How utterly stupid. “I’m sure you’ve got things you need to clear up before you make your fantastic return from the dead known?”

“Yes. There are loose ends to be tied.” Sherlock nodded, his eyes remaining downcast. He sounded humbled and slightly skittish, not to mention very unlike Sherlock.

“Don’t.” John warned and Sherlock’s eyes flicked up. “Don’t do that with me.”

Sherlock’s face remained neutral for a moment before his eyebrows raised at John’s continued glare. 

Oh. He’d been caught. Well done, John.

“How did you–?

“Because I know you. You don’t do genuine shame. Genuine emotion coming from you usually leads to tantrums and bullet holes in Mrs. Hudson’s walls, no to mention a crying policeman somewhere.” John frowned, cocking his head to the side. “I know you Sherlock, so don’t try to bullshit me by pretending to be someone you’re not.”

Instead of a battle, which John was fully prepared to fight, Sherlock’s mouth turned up into a small smirk of bemusement before blooming into a full grin. John knew this smile all too well. When he’d done something Sherlock considered bafflingly and inconceivably clever, John would earn one of these slowly dawning, brilliant smiles.

“I missed you.” Sherlock whispered and then the smile was gone, replaced by a look of shock and unadulterated horror. 

It was clear that Sherlock had never intended those words to ever be spoken in John’s presence and he was completely appalled with himself for allowing them to slip passed his lips. John didn’t know what to say. Sherlock looked scared. Honestly _scared._ He’d only seen that once before and that was when drugs and dogs were involved.

John continued to stare up at Sherlock, his eyes flicking over the detective looking for the tell-tale signs of bullshit. There was no way Sherlock actually _meant_ that. None. Sherlock didn’t care. He didn’t give a crap about anyone but himself. So, why on earth would he have missed _John_?

“I...” Sherlock began, most likely trying to recover from his own verbal mistake, but the original excuse died away and all John was left with was a shaky breath puffing out of Sherlock’s nose. The detective swallowed and his eyes tracked down John’s face, lingering a moment on John’s lips before quickly snapping back up to meet his gaze. One quick breath later and Sherlock was spinning away, taking long strides to the other end of the parlour and looking down into the empty fireplace once more.

“Sherlock?” Now John was just confused. Something had just happened. He was absolutely sure that something important had just happened and, because he didn’t possess the awesome observational powers of the great Sherlock Holmes, he’d missed it entirely.

“I don’t like this.” Came Sherlock’s reply, the man sounding frustrated.

“Don’t like what?”

“This, John. _This._ ” With the last word, Sherlock turn to John and gestured between them. “I don’t like not understanding _this._ ”

“What is _this,_ exactly?” John asked tentatively, now even more confused than he was angry. Actually, he’d completely forgotten he was angry after Sherlock had said, ‘ _I miss you.’_

“I don’t know!” Now Sherlock was yelling, which was surprising. John was sure that was supposed to be his job. “I don’t know what this is or why I feel...” Sherlock broke off again, that look of horror flashing on his face once more before he locked it away under his usual mask of indifference. “This was a terrible idea. I should go.”

“Wait... what?”

“I should go. I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock was moving as quickly as his words now, heading towards Lestrade’s front door. “You were right. I should leave you alone. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Wait... Sher–” But it was too late. Sherlock was gone and left John standing there in complete bewilderment. What the _fuck_ just happened?

* * *

He walked. He didn’t know where he was walking to, only that he needed to get away. Sherlock didn’t even care that it was still raining, just that he was out of Lestrade’s house, away from John and, most importantly, away from the annoying tightness that pressed down on his chest every time John looked at him 

Lestrade lived in a nice house over in Primrose Hill which led to Sherlock finding himself in Regent’s Park. He hadn’t intended to come here, but he supposed it suited his need for walking better than the streets of London. Aimlessly wandering around the city was never advisable when it was pouring. Too many chances to get drowned by passing cars through puddles.

He tried his best to remain focussed on where he was travelling, but his thoughts immediately veered off on their own, quickly return to John Watson. Sherlock still couldn’t figure out why John was so disappointed in him. Angry, yes. He understood angry. What ex-soldier with trust issues wouldn’t be angry when his friend lied to him on such a grand scale? 

It was the despondency that Sherlock couldn’t grasp. Sure, he understood that everyone mourns the loss of someone they consider a friend and colleague. He understood the emotional attachment some people made and the dismay of loss, though he could never really grasp it’s value. People were boring and did boring things like committing suicide over the loss of a lover or falling into deep depression when their favourite team lost a football match. 

Dull.

But John was not boring. He was not dull and he certainly was nothing like other people. John had nearly died in Afghanistan and yet returned to London with most of his dignity still intact. 

No. 

That wasn’t entirely true, was it? 

John had returned alive, but he also came toting a psychosomatic limp and dreadful, sleepless-night-causing nightmares.

But John Watson was passed all of that nonsense now. He’d followed Sherlock and chased down criminals and shot dreadful serial-killer cabbies. He was a brave soldier on the great battlefield of London.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and shook his head, his damp curls flinging water about. Perhaps he was going about this the wrong way? He should try to do what Mummy told him as a child.

_“Sherlock, you can’t say those things.”_

_“But mummy, they’re true. Everyone can see it.”_

_“Not everyone sees what you see, mon petit loutre. Some of those things are secrets. Secrets are supposed to remain hidden.”_

_“They aren’t hidden very good.”_

_“Hidden very_ _well_ _, Sherlock. And how would you feel if someone told all of your secrets to everyone, hmm? It wouldn’t be very nice.”_

_“I wasn’t being mean.”_

_“Put yourself in their shoes, loutre. How would you feel?”_

How _would_ Sherlock feel if he and John’s roles had been reversed? What if John had somehow, in some amazing display of luck, managed to fool Sherlock into thinking he’d killed himself? It was an utterly ludicrous thought. First off, John would never be able to manage hiding such a feat from Sherlock. The man couldn’t even lie about what’s he’d had for breakfast let alone mastermind a plan to falsify his suicide.

But what if he had? And then miraculously shown up three years later very much alive?Sherlock would feel angry. John was definitely angry. Sherlock would feel surprised. John was definitely rattled a bit. Sherlock would feel like the past three years were full of useless and wasted emotional vacillation all because John didn’t trust him enough to...

_Oh..._

When the realisation hit him, Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.

Betrayal. Sherlock would feel total and unmitigated betrayal. He would feel like his best friend, his only companion in this world, hadn’t trusted him enough to assist him in his grand scheme. Is that how John felt now? Did John feel like Sherlock had just passed him over without a second thought even though he had more than proven his reliability and unwavering loyalty?

If so, Sherlock was in more trouble with John than he’d initially anticipated. Taking a punch to the nose and having insults screamed at him was easily handled. Proving to someone how arrantly _wrong_ their conclusions had been on the value of their worth was a completely different matter.

He needed to get back to John. He needed to tell John exactly how important he was. Sherlock needed to tell John everything and not let ridiculous _feelings_ stop him from explaining to John how necessary he was.

Looking up, Sherlock glanced around to see how far he’d actually wandered from Lestrade’s home. What met his eyes shocked him slightly. There, beside the familiar awning of Speedy’s Cafe, was 221 Baker Street. He’d clearly been deep in thought and his feet took him the route through Regent’s Park purely from kinetic memory.

WIthout another pause, Sherlock crossed the street and rang the bell. No need to get any more damp than he already was. When the door opened, the shocked shriek from Mrs. Hudson was quickly covered over by Sherlock pushing passed her and muttering something about being alive and needing to use her phone.

* * *

“So, there was minimal yelling.” Greg said, handing John a beer as he took a seat next to the doctor on his sofa. “An nothing was broken. A bit shocked by that, really. I was at least expecting a broken mug or something. 

“Honestly, I don’t know what just happened.” John had remained staring at the door until Greg had come downstairs, worried over the sudden silence in the house. He’d heard the door shut, but didn’t know if anyone was left standing.

“Did he... I mean, what did he actually say?” Greg prompted, cracking open his beer and leaning back to throw his free arm over the back of the sofa.

“Nothing, really.” John said, his eyes on the beer bottle in his hands. He didn’t even open it. He just stared at it. “He just got upset about not understanding something and bolted. No real explanation or anything.”

“He didn’t say why he was upset? Not like the bloke has any reason, mind you. He did fuck us all over.”

“No, yeah... no...” John shook his head and frowned, looking up at Greg. “He did say something off, but I’m not entirely sure what it means.”

“Alright. What did he say?” Greg shifted in his seat, turning so that one knee was pulled up into the remaining space on the cushions.

“He said he missed me.” John said with a mixture of a laugh and a disbelieving scoff. “I mean, what the hell, Greg? He missed me? What’s he going on about?”

“Maybe he missed you.” Was Greg’s simple and, to John’s standards, completely unhelpful answer.

“Right. Thanks. Glad we’ve cleared that up.” John groaned, finally twisting the cap off the bottle in his hands and smiling sardonically before taking a sip.

“I’m serious, John. Maybe it’s that simple.” Greg moved to put his beer on the coffee table and turn himself to fully face John. “Maybe, after all these years of running about and doing God knows what, he missed you. Is that so hard to believe? I mean, you two were pretty much attached at the hip for a while and to be honest, it was a relief when you moved in with him.”

“What?”

“Seriously. You should have known him before you turned up.” Greg laughed, placing his hands on his pulled-up leg. “I’m willing to bet my career that anyone at the Yard would easily take post-John Sherlock over pre-John Sherlock any day.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” John asked, his face scrunching up with a crooked smile. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh yeah, you did.” Greg laughed, reaching back out to pick up his beer to take a sip before he continued. “Sherlock was a right git before you.”

“He’s always a git.” John muttered.

“Yeah, but before you started hanging around him, he was worse. Much worse.” Greg smiled and nodded. “I had to keep rookies away from him and I’m surprised Donavan had only managed to punch him one time. He was just a dick over all.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be convincing me he’s different now, because so far, you’ve pretty much told me everything I already know.”

“It’s hard to explain.” Greg sighed, leaning back onto the arm of the sofa. “He’s... calmer now. Not nearly as nasty. Sure, he can be downright cruel, but now you need to provoke him to get that. Before, he’d show up to a crime scene and when he was done with his analysis, he go on the hunt. Try and see how many people’s days he could ruin before he left.”

“And you’re saying that I changed that?” John still didn’t believe him. He didn’t do anything to change Sherlock. Sure, he scolded him sometimes for being a bit rude. Tried his best to get the arse to eat and sleep every now and then, but these were little things. It wasn’t as if Sherlock actually _listened_ to him.

“You did.” Greg laughed, taking another swig of his beer. “Though, I don’t think you actually noticed that you were doing it.”

“Definitely not.” John chuckled lightly, sipping his beer now too. It wasn’t whiskey, but for some strange reason, he wasn’t very much in the mood for whiskey. “So you honestly think that when Sherlock said he missed me, he actually meant that he _missed me_?”

“Yeah. To tell you the truth John, I don’t think Sherlock had every had someone who can put up with him for more than a few minutes, let alone almost two years.” Greg gave an over-embellished false shudder. “And actually _live_ with him for that long? Christ! I’m surprised you weren’t calling me to help you hide a body.”

That earned a hearty laugh from John who shrugged his shoulders and clinked he bottle against Greg’s.

“Don’t think for one second that it’s never crossed my mind.” He chuckled before letting the laughter die away into a heavy sigh. 

“I missed him too, Greg.”

“Yeah, mate. I know.” Lestrade was about to point out that it was a little obvious that John hadn’t taken Sherlock’s loss all too well when his house phone began ringing. He glanced over at the clock over his telly. “Who would be calling at ten-o-clock at night?”

“Something tells me they’ll tell you who they are if you ask them nicely.” John smiled, letting the heavy moment pass and secretly thankful that the phone had rescued him from it. He watched as Greg picked up the cordless and and answered it curtly.

“Hello?” Pause. “Oh. Hullo Mrs...” Pause. “Yes, it’s true.” Pause. “No. No he’s with me.” Pause and a look at John. “Yeah. He knows.” Pause. “I’m sure he’ll be just as upset. I’m sorry for your trouble.” Pause. “No. It’s fine. We’ll be right there.” Pause. “No problem. See you soon.” Greg hung up the phone and gave John a very dark glower. “That was Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh no.” John groaned. He knew _exactly_ where this was going. “He didn’t.”

“Oh, he did. Nearly gave the woman a heart attack.” Greg shook his head. “Says he’s in a right state and wants to know if you’ll come take care of it.”

“Twenty-four hours!” John exclaimed, jumping up from his seat and heading towards the stairs to fetch his things from the guest bedroom. “Twenty-four hours and I’m already picking up after him. _Christ!_ ”

“Just like old times!” Greg hollered up the stairs after John, his smile beaming.

“Shut up!” Was all Greg got in return.

* * *

The drive to 221 Baker Street had John on edge. He could feel his stomach cramping all the way there, which John thought was silly. It wasn’t like, after Sherlock’s death, he’d hadn’t been there since. He’d lived in the flat for months before finally coming to the conclusion that he couldn’t bear the place any longer. Baker Street just wasn’t the same without spontaneous combustions and unrehearsed violin concerts 

Mrs. Hudson had insisted that he stay, perhaps find another flatmate, but John balked at the thought. What was the point? Baker Street was where he and Sherlock lived and now that Sherlock was gone, had been no need to stay.

As Greg pulled his car up to the kerb, anxiety curled even tighter around John’s middle. It had been over two years since he’d been here and even the sight of the door made him uneasy. Whenever he saw Mrs. Hudson, which was a rarity now, he always met her for tea somewhere else.

“She said the front door is unlocked.” Greg mentioned as they got out of his car and stepped up to the entryway. John nodded and proceeded to push open the door.

He honestly couldn’t have prepared himself for what was on the other side. Sherlock was sitting on the third step leading up to 221B, looking rather pathetic and thoroughly scorned with his knees pulled up on the second stair with his elbows resting atop them. He glanced up when the door opened and the already stellar frown on his lips deepened when he saw John and Lestrade.

“She threw me out.” He said glumly.

“Seems to be a theme when you show up at people’s flats unannounced.” John managed to grin cheekily. “Though I don’t think you’ve quite gotten the hint yet.”

“She said I could wait for you here because it’s raining.” Sherlock muttered. “Honestly, only that woman can yell at you, kick you out of her flat and still be concerned about you catching flu at the same time.”

That made John chuckled softly and shake his head. 

“You are an idiot.” He smiled genially, letting Greg pass him.

“I’m going to check on Mrs. Hudson. Make sure you actually _didn’t_ give her a heart attack.” He smiled as he passed Sherlock on the steps.

“She’s fine.” He heard Sherlock murmur, but Lestrade continued on. He really didn’t want to impose on this conversation.

When they were left alone, John’s smile had faded and he took a few steps forward before sighing heavily.

“Budge up.” He said, kicking Sherlock’s shoe with his foot. The detective shifted and allowed John to squeeze himself in next to him. They were shoulder to shoulder with their knees squished tightly together. It wasn’t the most comfortable arrangements, so John shifted up on more step. Sitting like this, he and Sherlock were at the same height.

They sat there in silence for a long moment, John fussing with the hem of his jumper and Sherlock blindly staring at the front door. It was like neither of them wanted to shatter the calm that had settled, but John knew that this was just potentially the eye of the storm. He wasn’t as catastrophically angry as he was that morning, but he was weary of his temper remaining dormant for long, especially when Sherlock was involved. At least he was still sober.

“John...” Sherlock was the first to brake the silence, but he stopped before he actually started. He didn’t actually know what to say. He couldn’t tell John he missed him again because all that had done was make things more confusing. He wanted to express his frustration, but that had further exacerbated his own annoyance. 

“I don’t know what to say...” He finally said feebly, knowing that it would have been just as well if he had said nothing.

“Well, you can try with I’m sorry. That’s usually a good start.” John said, the front door now gaining his full attention as well.

“Yes, but we both know that I’m not sorry.” Sherlock frowned, clenching his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut. “Not for what I did.”

“Right.” John sighed, already beginning to feel anger bubbling up in his chest. He should have known that Sherlock would immediately piss him off. It was second nature to the bastard.

“But, I suppose I am sorry for the effect had on you.” It certainly didn’t sound like an apology, but it got John’s eyes to turn and look at Sherlock’s ear instead of the front door to 221. “I thought more on it and I realise that in my planning, I disregarded your feelings in the matter. Not unsurprising because I find _feelings,”_ He spat the word out as if it had tasted bad. “To be rather meretricious. But in my pondering I did realise that you may have misinterpreted the intentional avoidance of your involvement in the execution of my plans.”

“How is it you can make me feel so dumb, even while your attempting to say you’re sorry?” John gave slightly humoured laugh. “Meretricious? Who says that?”

“Attractive, yet pointless.” Sherlock said, finally turning his head to look at John. “Feelings may seem wonderful, but in effect they are useless.”

“Feelings aren’t useless, Sherlock.” John frowned. “They’re what make us human.”

“I don’t want to be human.” Sherlock grimaced.

“Well, I can’t stop, so you’re just going to have to deal with it.” John frowned, turning his face away before he got angry again. Why was Sherlock always so damn difficult?

“Just because I don’t want to be something, doesn’t mean I’m not.” Those words were whispered so softly that John was surprised he heard them at all. When he whipped his head around in disbelief, he found Sherlock’s sulking gaze on the front door again.

“Perhaps you can have it removed or something. I’m a doctor. I’m sure if I ask around...” A stupid attempt at humour, but it got the result that he wanted. Sherlock let out a soft, low chuckle that rumbled slightly against John’s knee where it touched Sherlock’s. “I mean, it might be expensive and I’m _sure_ insurance won’t cover it.”

He was sniggering now too and by the time he’d finished his last sentence, both he and Sherlock had fallen into a fit of giggles. They laughed hard. So hard that that it brought tears to the corner of John’s eyes, but as the chuckles died down, the tears remained and he sighed heavily, eyes wet and smile faltering.

“Why, Sherlock?” He asked, his voice cracking slightly with heavy emotion that crept out of nowhere. “Why did you let me believe it? Do have any idea what it did to me? To watch you jump? How much it...” He couldn’t. He stopped speaking and his throat closed up entirely. John couldn’t believe he’d let himself get this far and before he knew it, he was heaving breaths and covering his face with his hands.

“I’m sorry.” It was soft at first, but eventually he felt fingers pulling as his hands. When he let them fall, he found Sherlock staring at him, his face slightly crumpled. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” Was all John could ask, his voice a husky whisper.

“You had to believe it, John.” Sherlock was still holding John’s hands. “You _had_ to. If I committed suicide, who would the world turn to but my best friend? The only person that ever truly knew me? They would look to you, John, and you had to be the most convincing of all.” John looked away as a tear finally escaped, hurriedly pulling one hand from Sherlock’s grip to quickly wipe it away. “Moriarty assured me that no one was safe. I had to end my life and the world was to know I was a fake or he was going to kill you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Everyone I cared about, everything I held dear would be destroyed.”

“So you had to wait three years?” John asked, looking at Sherlock with tears still in his eyes yet to fall. He sniffled softly and use the hand he’d pulled free to wipe his face. “Look at me. I’m a mess.” He frowned, adding a slight embarrassed chuckle at the end. “I’m crying like a little girl.” 

“You’re fine.” Sherlock chuckled softly, tightening his hand in John’s. “We’ll be fine.”

“Will we?” John asked and held his breath for the answer. Sherlock gave John one of those slowly dawning smiles and nodded slowly.

“I think we will.” He said, his eyes flicking down to John’s lips again and this time not wavering. “But it’s up to you.”

“Is it?” John’s eyes drooped slightly and he took a slow breath in through his nose. Everything had slowed down and the room seemed to collapse in on itself leaving on the two of them staring at each other. John leaned closer and Sherlock mirrored him. Their foreheads touched and Sherlock pushed John’s head with his own, slotting their noses beside each other and sighing softly. 

“I...” John began, his breath puffing against Sherlock’s cheek. It was the beginnings of a confession. This was why is was so painful. This was why Sherlock showing up at his door was so shocking. Sherlock had left a gaping hole in John’s life and they had only known each other for such a short time.

“So, have you two killed each other or something? It’s uncomfortably quiet out here.” Greg’s voice was like an electric shock that blew the two of them apart and leaving Sherlock damn near out the door, removing himself as far away from John as he could physically get without actually stepping outside.

“No. Nope.” John smiled, a blush creeping up into his cheeks all the way to his ears. “We’re alright.”

Greg raised his eyebrows and looked over at Sherlock who seemed rather fascinated with the floor.

“You sure?” Greg asked, eyeing Sherlock and swearing he could see the detective’s cheeks turn pink.

“Yes. I’m sure.” John nodded, standing and offering up a beaming smile. It was the best he could do. Inside, John was about ready to throw up. He had no _idea_ what to do with what just happened.

“Alright, well, you ready to head out now?” The question hung in the air and John glanced over at Sherlock who was making a very poignant effort to _not_ look at John.

“Yeah, sure. I guess.” When John spoke, Sherlock’s eyes flashed up at him. It was almost like the detective was pleading. “I’m actually really tired.”

“Okay. Then I should get you back to my place. Bed will do you good.” Greg smiled, his focus now on John. “Oh!” He huffed, spinning to catch Sherlock’s strange glare at John. “Mrs. Hudson wants to speak with you before you go.”

“Oh?” Sherlock raised a brow and tilted his head. “What for?”

“Something about things of yours. She mentioned storage.”

“Oh. Alright.” The detective seemed a bit crestfallen at that, but Greg ignored it. He could feel the tension in the room and wanted out of there as soon as possible.

“Well... right then.” John started, standing and stretching a bit. “We should be off. Please don’t irritate Mrs. Hudson. She’s a lovely woman.”

“I won’t.” Sherlock’s voice was grumbly again, turning to head back down the hall towards 221A. As John passed by him, the doctor grabbed at his elbow, stopping his advancement.

“Hey.” John whispered so only Sherlock could hear him. “We’ll be okay.” 

Sherlock averted his gaze again, but gave John a confirming nod before pulling free of his grasp and continuing on to see Mrs. Hudson.

“Ready?” Greg asked, tugging John’s attention away from the door closing on 221A.

“Yeah. I think I am.” He smiled and Greg made a face. He may not be Sherlock Holmes, but Greg was pretty sure that he and John weren’t thinking about the same thing.

* * *

John slept late the next day. Greg was long gone by the time he woke. It wasn’t surprising. He’s spent plenty a drunk night sleeping of his stupor in Greg’s guest bedroom. For a while there, mainly because John was trying to avoid going back to 221B, John was at Greg’s almost every night. He really should have taken the bloke up on the offer to stay 

Once showered, brushed and dressed in yesterdays clothes, John went about the familiar routine of making tea and toast. His head ached and as he pulled a mug down from the shelf, he realised he was shaking.

“Fuck.” He mumbled to himself. He knew this would happen. He placed the rattling porcelain on the counter and turned the kettle on to boil. “Stupid alcoholism.”

It wasn’t that John didn’t know he was a drunk. He knew. He _definitely_ knew. His sister had flat out called him a drunk to his face. Even though the situation was definitely the pot calling the kettle black, John couldn’t disagree with her. His whole family had always had a problem with the bottle and it was apparent that, if put under enough stress, so did John.

He flexed his hands a few time, trying to get them to settle down a bit. There was no need for the drinking now. Everything he tried to drown was shifting back to the way it was. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Sure, Greg had gotten his station promoted back to Detective Inspector. Mycroft had finally started leaving John alone. Most importantly, Sherlock was alive.

_God,_ that made John want to drink more... especially after the previous night. What the hell had that been all about?

John shook his head and pulled the boiling kettle off the switch to pour steaming water over his tea bag. He didn’t want to think too much about last night. That led to _over-_ thinking about last night. And _that_ led to over-thinking about how close Sherlock had been to... 

“What was he doing?” John asked out loud. “What was _I_ doing?” Was Sherlock about to _kiss_ him? No. Nononono... Wrong! That thought was... a bit not good. Kissing Sherlock was definitely _not_ something John wanted to do... was it?

“No.” John nervously laughed, tipping some sugar into his cup, his hand now shaking enough that the spoon dribbled granules all over the counter top. He sighed in frustrations and brushed the mess onto the floor. He’d clean it later.

Carefully, he lifted up his mug and blew on it. The warmth helped with the shaking of his hands. Taking a sip, he moved to the parlour to flick on the telly. Greg had left the paper out for him, but he wasn’t very interested. Placing his mug on the coffee table, he sat on the couch and sighed into it.

There was no use in over-thinking what happened. He’d missed Sherlock and Sherlock missed him. They were once very good mates and obviously took comfort in each other for a moment. A moment that turn surprisingly intimate...

“No.” John scolded himself. Not intimate. Poor choice of word. Sighing, John ran a hand over his face. Then what was the right word because they _were_ being intimate. They were so close. So close that all John had to do was nudge an inch further and he would have slotted his lip against...

“Stop it!” Now his mind was taking off without him and John was _not_ having any of that. He leaned forward to retrieve his tea and turn a slightly burning sip. He frowned at the mug, but continued to sip at it anyway, trying to focus on the sensation of the heated liquid and not the fantasy of plump, cupids-bow lips pressing against his own.

“Dammit.” He sighed, letting his head fall back on the back of the sofa. “What is wrong with me?”

Before his mind could provide and answer, John’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

“What now?” He groaned, placing the mug back on the coffee table and pulling his mobile free from his jeans.

_Mrs. Hudson says that the students living in 221B will be returning home by the end of this month. -SH_

John stared at his phone, blinking a few times as if he’d read the text wrong. Was Sherlock seriously implying that they move back in together?

_Unfortunate 4 her. Finding renters in spring is hard. -JW_

There. No confirmation or denial. Just conversation. The next text came quick enough to make John smile. Sherlock was always a ridiculously adept texter.

_I suppose I should be more direct even though I’m sure you’re being deliberately obtuse. Mrs. Hudson will be looking for renters in May and I am suggesting that we move back to Baker Street. -SH_

Well, that was rather direct.

_What makes U think I want to move back 2 Baker St? -JW_

Because he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

_Because Baker Street is home. -SH_

Well, if that didn’t sum it all up. As much as John would prefer Sherlock be wrong in this matter, Baker Street _was_ home. John had moved around enough in the past few years to realise that he didn’t belong anywhere but Baker Street.

_John? -SH_

Oops. Apparently he’d taken too long to reply. Was Sherlock nervous now? 

_Sry. Just thinking. -JW_

_It’s not a difficult decision. -SH_

Oh, for God’s sake...

_Yes, it is. -JW_

_Why? -SH_

“Because I don’t know if it’s the right one, you insufferable sod!” John yelled at his phone. He wasn’t going to text that to Sherlock, but he felt it needed to be said.

_I don’t know if I can. -JW_

“That’s get him to stop asking why...” John groaned, knowing that what he’d sent Sherlock was completely cryptic and didn’t explain anything.

_I want to come home, John._

No little -SH on the end. No condescending quip about John being and idiot.

_Are you free today? -JW_

_Yes._

That was fast.

_Greg is @ wrk. Come ovr for tea. -JW_

John held his breath, though he didn’t have to hold it long.

_On my way._

* * *

John sat on the sofa for a long time, gripping the legs of his trousers and staring at his empty mug as if the thing was about to burst into flames. He hadn’t been this anxious since he stepped off the bus for first phase training in the army. When the sharp ting of the doorbell rang, John snapped to attention. 

He moved slowly, peering through the peephole on the door to see Sherlock making a face that clearly indicated he knew John was observing him.

“Stupid git.” John laughed, opening the door and allowing Sherlock to witness the tail end of his chuckle.

“What?” The detective asked, his nose scrunching up in confusion before smoothing out and being replaced by a broad smile.

“Come in, you bastard. It’s cold.” John smiled, ushering Sherlock in with a wave.

Sherlock moved passed John as quickly made his way to the parlour, shedding his coat and casually draping over the back of the open armchair.

“I suppose it is, but only so because it’s still wet outside.” He commented, taking a seat on the sofa, diagonally places from where John’s empty mug lay.

“I’ll put the kettle on.” John commented before grabbing his empty mug off the table and  disappearing into the kitchen.

Sherlock remained silent while John fussed about making tea. His eyes flicked about, taking in the house proper since the last time he’d been here, he was a bit to flustered to bother. Lestrade truly did have a nice home. It was a pity that it was so empty now. Lestrade’s wife had left him and taken the kids. Truly unfortunate.

When John returned, he was proudly holding two steaming mugs. Sherlock could tell from here that they were Earl Grey. His favourite. John always put milk in his own, no sugar. Sherlock enjoyed what his brother called ‘baby tea.’

“Here you are.” John smiled, handing Sherlock the mug. It had a glassy imprint of a dog on the side of it. “Hope I got it right.”

Sherlock offered a perfunctory smirk before blowing on the mug’s contents and taking a sip. His smirk grew into something more real and he nodded slightly.

“Perfect.” He grinned, looking at John. “I never understood how you do that. Always perfect.”

“Well, I know my tea.” John offered, lifting his mug in a faux salute before taking a seat next to Sherlock on the sofa. He sipped his own tea and waited to see if this casual, but pointless track of conversation was going to continue.

“I’m still sorry.” Came Sherlock’s solid baritone. John glanced over and found unsurprisingly that Sherlock’s eyes were focused on something that definitely was _not_ John. “But I don’t know how to explain it all without you getting angry with me.”

“I think I’m done being angry.” John admitted, looking at Sherlock even though the man wouldn’t look back. “But I don’t think I’m ready to forgive you.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Good.” John nodded, and turned back to face the fireplace. Good.

They sat there for while longer, sipping their tea and not saying a word. The only sounds were the soft liquid sloshing and the occasional shift of fabric. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but it wasn’t an entirely pleasant one either. John knew that he should say something about what had happened the evening before, but he wasn’t entire sure how to broach the subject. Luckily, Sherlock did it for him.

“We’re not normal friends, are we, John?” He asked, placing his now half-empty mug onto the coffee table and turning to face John fully. He brought one knee up onto the sofa the same way Greg had when he was sharing a beer with John the night before.

“Dissected body parts and fake suicides not withstanding, I think we manage normal.” John smiled, trying to keep this conversation from becoming too serious. He already knew that Sherlock didn’t do well with serious.

“Not what I meant.” Sherlock sighed. “I mean, we’re not like normal mates.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because normal people don’t fall into three years of depression when they become separated from their friends. Normal people adjust and move on.” Sherlock said, his voice clear and his eye scrutinising.

Well, that was rather too blunt. John wasn’t expecting it.

“Oh? Is that what happened to me? Guess I must of missed that.” John replied a little too hotly.

Sherlock didn’t say anything at first. He spun back around and began focussing on that damn fireplace again. When he finally did speak, the words were so hushed that John wasn’t sure he heard him correctly.

“Wasn’t talking about you.”

“What?” John asked, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t mind repeating himself just this once.

“I said, I wasn’t talking about you, John.” Sherlock said sharply before he leaned over and put his elbows on his knees and his fingers to his lips. “I was talking about me.”

“You?” Now John was confused again. How was _Sherlock_ the one who was depressed? Sherlock certainly wasn’t trying to find relief in the bottom of a bottle. Nope. John was handling that perfectly well all on his own.

“Yes, me.” Sherlock frowned, his eyes closing. He took a slow breath through his nose before continuing. “I’ve been tracking Moriarty’s employees throughout the world, by myself, for the past three years. I didn’t intend it to take that long, but the last of his inner circle, Sebastian Moran, has proven to be far more clever than I had anticipated.”

John decided that he’d let Sherlock speak, so he just made a small ‘hmm’ noise and placed his mug next to Sherlock’s on the table.

“I told you once that alone protects me, but I’ve come to discover that being alone isn’t what it used to be.” Sherlock moved again, standing up to pace the parlour with a flourish of his arms, gesticulating as he spoke. “You came along and ruined alone for me. Alone was what I had to keep myself safe, to keep myself focussed and most importantly to keep myself from feeling and you came along and dashed that all to hell.”

John watched him move and when he spun around accusingly, the doctor shook his head.

“Ya know. I was a mess before I met you.” He gave a soft chuckle as he spoke. “I was damn ready to eat my gun after I return to London.”

“Oh please, you were bored.”

“Exactly! I was bored and felt useless and felt alone and lost and then you came along with your coat and your crime scenes and your violin and fucked all that up for me too.” John frowned. He was standing now as well and he took a few steps towards Sherlock to glare up at him. “You gave me a purpose. You gave me a reason to keep going and I’ll be damned if I’m too ashamed to say it was the best two years of my life!”

John heaved in a breath and stared at Sherlock for what he felt was inappropriately too long. How Sherlock did this to him, John would never know.

“Better than the war?” Sherlock asked, a small smile itching to pull at the corner of his mouth.

“War was dull in comparison.” That response got Sherlock to grin and eventually chuckle which led to John chuckling too.

“I did miss you.” Sherlock frowned as his laughter died off. “And I’ve never missed anyone.”

“Glad I could make an impression.” John smiled at him. There was a tenderness in Sherlock’s face that John rarely had the opportunity to see and the implications tugged at his heart a little. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.” Sherlock immediately replied, his eyes locked on John’s.

“Can I do something without you laughing at me or saying I’m being ridiculous or some rubbish like that?” John’s voice was slightly hushed, but his smile remained. It was almost like the expression was a mask and something else longed to be released from underneath. “I just want a moment to be... to feel...”

“Go on.” Sherlock interrupted, his face going blank. He was waiting.

Without any more prompting, the smile on John’s face crumpled and tears quickly slipped from his eyes. He stepped forward and swiftly wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and buried his face in the taller man’s shoulder. Sherlock tense for a still second before her shifted his body and encircled his arms over John’s shoulders. The doctor’s hands ran up Sherlock’s back and gripped his jacket as Sherlock let his cheek nuzzle softly against John’s hair.

They remained motionless until John’s shoulders started to shake and soft sobs could be heard, muffled by the fabric of Sherlock’s suit. Sherlock lifted a hand and placed it on the back of John’s neck, soothing fingers running through the hair at the base of the doctor’s scalp.

“I’m sorry, John.” He whispered into blond hair. “I’m sorry.”

“I missed you.” Came John’s broken voice again Sherlock’s next and Sherlock could feel the salty wetness against his skin. “So much.”

Sherlock tilted his head just a bit more and placed a soft kiss on John’s temple. A sharp inhale of breath came from the smaller man and the next thing Sherlock knew, John’s lips were on his. It wasn’t a passionate kiss. Not even remotely. Everything was wet, not in any attractive way, and their necks were craning at awkward angles...but it was nice all the same. Sherlock moved slightly so that he could slot their lips more comfortably and everything seemed to click together.

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock whispered, breath ghosting over John lips and making the other man shudder slightly.

“I know.” John hushed back, eyes still closed. He pulled away gently, but only far enough that their foreheads were touching and he could look into Sherlock’s eyes. “But I think...”

Sherlock stiffened, but John remained relaxed and suddenly smiled.

“I think we’re going to be okay.” Because apparently kissing Sherlock was _definitely_ something John wanted to do.

~Fin~


End file.
